


The Last to Depart

by isasolan



Series: Arafinwë [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Break Up, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Difficult Decisions, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Post-Break Up, Telerin bias, pre-Kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 19:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14527269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: Fëanáro has departed. So has Ñolofinwë. And Arafinwë tarries and tarries in Tirion, and his children with him.Post-Darkening, pre-Kinslaying. Finarfin struggles to give the order to depart. Amarië has just broken up with Finrod. Decisions must be made, against all wisdom.





	The Last to Depart

**Author's Note:**

> Well, apparently I still have Things to Say in this fandom, and I've got a few recent comments on older fics that made me hope there'd be some interest in this, so here it goes. It's been a long time, but maybe it's like riding a bike?
> 
> As usual, I am using the Shibboleth (HoME XII) genealogy, where Indis has 4 children and not 5, and Orodreth is a son of Angrod and not of Finarfin, though I have used Artaresto rather than Artaher as his Quenya name. I used Quenya names everywhere to be closer to the characters, and hopefully with the new AO3 tags it's easier to follow who's who - though I do wonder why Nerwen, Ingoldo and Aikanáro are not included in their respective character tags? It's especially bad in the case of Aegnor | Aikanáro, since that is the name he preferred. 
> 
> Re: Finrod/Amarië, after Nargothrond is built Galadriel asks Finrod why he doesn't marry (XI), so clearly she had reason to believe the brother "nearest to her heart" (XII) was free to marry by then. I interpret this as he and Amarië being "broken up" before he left, and his siblings being aware of it.

 

* * *

 

 

This wretched darkness.

 

Arafinwë runs a tentative hand over the crystal to make it brighter, to no avail. Before, its glow was enough to light his study room (enough to read, in any case) even when Telperion was dimmed. _Before_. Now, it seems, one would need at least five of these lamps to attempt reading a text. A short one. With large letters. He shakes his head. Ñoldorin craft, great as it may be, does not rise to the occasion. The very lamp of atop the Mindon Eldaliéva has been faltering for days, suffocated by the dark, thick fog that surrounds everything. A Teler lamp, in contrast, like those the mariners take on their long journeys out in the Great Sea, would fill the room with light. Their beacons remain visible for miles and miles where the light of the Trees does not reach, no matter how thick the fog.

 

Arafinwë takes his pen, intending to send a message to Alqualondë requesting a dozen of them, when he catches himself: there is no point to that, is there. They are not staying in Tirion. They are supposed to be readying for the march, and they will pass by Alqualondë on the way. If they leave. If. But the idea does have some merit: more light would surely mean a comfort - for his people, for his children. He must own at least one such lamp himself, somewhere in a trunk, a relic of happier times when he used to sail with his brothers-in-law. But where? He debates calling a few helpers, but guilt stops him before he raises his voice: they are immensely busy as is, readying for a departure that never comes. He can search for it himself. He has a fair notion where it may be, and it might do him some good to occupy his mind with something that is not death, or darkness.

 

As if that were possible.

 

Still, Arafinwë searches patiently, methodically, opening chest after chest in the overly enormous dressing room of his bedchambers. So large is this room that he shared it with Eärwen, when they stayed in Tirion, her beautiful dresses interspersed with his own robes. He cannot help marveling at the volume of trinkets and clothes they have both accumulated over the years, especially considering how seldom they were in this city - Alqualondë has always truly been their home, and Tirion but a temporary stop. At some point, his mind reminds him with gleeful unhelpfulness, he will finally have to decide which of these clothes to take for the journey, if he truly means to leave. If. _Do not go_ , his mother pleaded, earlier.

 

Hours must have passed (but how would he know? without the Trees, there is no way to  mark the time) when he finally locates the trunk he meant to find. A small, worn-out, wooden _box_ , for lack of a better word, discoloured by salt and scratched raw by sand. It still smells of the sea when he opens it, and he cannot help a faint smile. He reaches inside eagerly, finding seashells, and pearls, and a fishing net, and thin silvery ropes, and letters he wrote to her in the uncertain handwriting of his youth. Why did he store all this away? These keepsakes of their young love, of their courtship, should have been displayed in their halls, for everyone to see. He sinks a hand under the fishing net that occupies much of the box, and there it is, at last: a Teler lamp, silver and blue. Gifted to Arafinwë by Eärwen's brothers, when he was taught to sail. The strong scent of whale oil fills the dressing room as he twirls it, the golden, honey-yellow viscosity dancing inside the bottle. He allows himself to feel childish triumph, and brings it back to the study room, pointedly ignoring the appalling mess he has left behind in his wake.

 

That brief satisfaction was, perhaps, a little hasty: the oil levels should last for several days, at least until he finds a way to replenish them with a suitable replacement, but the mechanism to align the reflecting glasses seems to have jammed after so many years in the trunk. Arafinwë slips a finger in a small opening, hoping to jostle free whatever cog might lie in there. Teler engineering is usually incomplex enough for him, thoroughly untrained in these arts, to understand, and his desire to see light is greater than his growing sense of frustration. He thinks he's managed to identify some sort of button he might like to press when he senses the distress of one of his children, sharp and clear like the light he so keenly misses. Findaráto? Arafinwë stands, the lamp forgotten, and rushes to the door of his study that he swings open in alarm. He finds his eldest son there, his face ashen in the darkness, and his gaze vacant and lost.

 

"What!" Arafinwë exclaims. "What, child? What happened?"

 

"Oh," Findaráto says, blinking in confusion as if only then did he notice him at the door.

 

His eyes are glossy with tears. Tears! Arafinwë reaches for his hands to bid him inside, but when he takes his left he sees his son is holding something in his fist, and will not let go. Findaráto stares at him, then straightens with some effort, trying to compose himself but failing to do so.

 

"Amarië has returned her ring," he says, his voice flat as he opens his fist to reveal a small, silver ring.

 

Arafinwë holds back a gasp, for fear of distressing him more. Silver rings are seldom returned. He cannot recall any instances of it in the recent past. Or ever - not with anyone he knows, at least. But that was _before_. In this ghastly darkness, in the wake of this ill-conceived journey, it likely has become a much more common occurrence. Still. Findaráto? His beloved child, of all people? He pulls him inside the study and his son follows, numb, as he leads him to a settee. He has not removed his own ring, Arafinwë notes, and feels his heart breaking for him.

 

"What happened?" he asks, again.

 

"She will not depart," Findaráto says, his fist opening and closing idly around her silver ring. "I asked her to join me... I asked her to _marry_ me. But she will not depart, not against the wishes of her family, and those of the Valar. So we quarrelled. And she returned the ring." He swallows, and stares at Arafinwë with veritable anguish. "Please. You must speak to her father!"

 

"And say what to him?" Arafinwë asks gently, aware that this is a desperate, but misguided attempt to salvage what is likely long lost. He knows the girl enough to know her decision was not taken lightly, the reasons for her refusal too serious to be a mere fancy.

 

"I don't know. Anything. Please!"

 

"Oh, my dear," he says, and tries to pull him into his arms, but Findaráto is too distressed, and resists the embrace.

 

"You will do nothing? You will not help me?"

 

"What could I possibly say to her father that would sway her mind, when _you_ yourself could not, for all the love you once shared?"

 

Findaráto flinches at this, but makes a valiant effort to remain eloquent.

 

"Tell him that we are not like the others! Tell him that we do love the Valar, that we leave for our own reasons. Tell him that in our House..." His face crumbles as the futility of his suggestions dawns on him, and he chokes back a sob. "Nay, you're right, it will not do. She loves me not, and I have lost her. Perhaps she never loved me!"

 

He throws the ring across the room with a violence that startles Arafinwë. It rolls under the desk in a long circle, returning towards them with malicious will. It stops by their feet, and Arafinwë quickly anticipates Findaráto's intention of standing up and kicking it away. He holds him by the arm to keep him seated, willing to weather the storm as it passes, but is dismayed to find he has to use some force, because his son is struggling back against him. But in the end, Findaráto relents, throws himself back against the settee, and cries. Arafinwë has not seen him cry for decades, when he was a very young child. Perhaps this manner of comfort is more fit for an elfling indeed, but short of pulling him into his arms, petting his hair, and murmuring sweet nothings against his head, he is at a complete loss of how to lessen this grief. The irrational urge to do something, _anything_ , to stop his son's suffering overwhelms him enough to consider riding to Valimar, and speaking to Amarië himself, despite having refused to do so mere moments before.

 

"Let me take your ring to return it, and speak to them if I can," he offers, but Findaráto stiffens in his arms.

 

"I shall not return my ring to her," he says, with enough force to discourage any discussion. "She may go back on her word, but not I. I said I would love her for ever, and I will."

 

Arafinwë purses his lips, sensing that this decision is borne out of wounded pride rather than out of steadfast love. He readies himself to rebuke his son as gently as possible, given his state of mind, but the brief vision that materialises at the forefront of his mind silences him at once. _Findaráto, alone, childless, an empty smile on his lips at Artaresto's wedding_. The pain cuts through Arafinwë's heart. He takes his son by the shoulders, and gives him a soft shake.

 

"It isn't too late," he tells him. "If you will not go back on your word, then you must stay. Stay, and wed her."

 

"Stay?" Findaráto repeats, his eyes wide with surprise. "Stay here, while my entire family marches on?"

 

 _We could_ all _stay_ , Arafinwë thinks, and the relief that washes through him is so intense that he wonders how much of a folly it is to depart. Staying with his mother, and his sister, and the Valar - would that they could. Would that they could. If Findaráto stays, perhaps his other children may be persuaded not to leave. Artanis, most of all. He isn't sure about the boys.

 

"She will be your family, and together you may start your own House," he forces himself to say. "She will bear you many fair children."

 

Children! Who can think of children in this darkness? Arafinwë regrets his words. But Findaráto only stares at him, bewildered, as if the suggestion were so utterly outlandish he had not considered it. He blinks.

 

"I want that," he says, slowly. "I do. But I also want to leave. I know in my heart that I must leave. I have always known. If she will not join me, and if she will not wait for my return, then so be it."

 

That is what troubles Arafinwë the most about the ring being returned. Leaving aside Fëanáro's mad purpose, their journey East was not conceived to last so long that keeping a troth would be too great a burden. A decade, three at most, before they are free of the Enemy. Surely they will not tarry in those foreign lands. Surely they will return soon. He feels the lie in his thoughts at once, and knows that the Vanyar do too. They will never return. What hope is there, truly? Can the Eldar, no matter how great and numerous, ever hope to defeat a Vala, as the herald of Manwë so eloquently reminded the host of Fëanáro before they left? Can they ever hope to avenge his father, and to reclaim the light of the Trees? What lands await them there, are they habitable, fit for building? He argued against it in the Great Square, and his heart still argues against this ill-timed resolve. Fëanáro has departed. So has Ñolofinwë. And Arafinwë tarries and tarries in Tirion, and his children with him.

 

"I will not stay," Findaráto repeats, and untangles himself from him to pace around the room.

 

Arafinwë too stands, to pick up the ring that lies on the floor. Such fine craftsmanship. Findaráto designed it for months, and worked closely with the smiths of Alqualondë to see it to completion. It bears the sigil of their House, finely engraved around the band, and a poem that he dares not read curls on the inside. Findaráto truly did love her, he should have never had this taken from him. And what else will be taken from them, in this land that was once promised to be blessed and safe? The world is changed, unknown, the fair cities in darkness, the houses cold, and the lands in desolation. Perhaps staying and lamenting what once was is more of a burden than seeking to escape it. Arafinwë places the ring on his desk, next to the Teler lamp, unspeakably pained. His son must have been looking at him, because he moves closer.

 

"A lamp!" he says, with an enthusiasm that betrays how much he desires to turn his mind to other matters, just as Arafinwë had, earlier. "You found a lamp! Does it not work?"

 

"I do not know," Arafinwë says, and steps aside to let him take it, if he so wishes.

 

Findaráto examines the Teler lamp, turns it upside down, and frowns when he finds it jammed. He has none of Arafinwë's hesitation to fiddle with the mechanism, and pulls at something, or maybe presses it. The faint sound of a click and of cogs turning disturbs the silence. Clever boy. The lamp comes alive suddenly, blinding them both with its radiance. Arafinwë shields his eyes. He grew accustomed to the darkness, he supposes. He wasn't wrong: the glow is enough to light up the room, more than enough. Perhaps even too much. But his heart rejoices with the light, a joy so primal and ancient he feels like singing, despite the dreadful gloom that surrounds them. Next to him, Findaráto has reached for his hand, and holds it.

 

"Let us put it in the terrace, shall we?" he tells him. "So that others may see it too, even at a distance."

 

"Let me," Findaráto says.

 

Arafinwë follows him to the terrace and watches him set it on the ledge of the balcony. Down below, the Great Square is stinkingly empty. Silent. Not so long ago the frenzied crowd filled all of it, shouting, screaming. They were all mad that day. Even Arafinwë, mad with grief over the brutal loss of his father, and over the strife tearing the Ñoldor in two. The Teler lamp casts its raw radiance on the square, illuminating the streets of the city that coil down and away from the Tower. Further beyond, the land lies in utter darkness, in the direction where the Trees used to shine. Arafinwë thinks of the black stumps, twisted and dead. Even further beyond, in Formenos, his father's body was found, twisted and dead, too. He never saw it. He did not want to. His thoughts were with his mother, and by her side he had stayed, until he was certain Findis would see to her. But he knows Angaráto and Aikanáro rode North to see the broken body. Why, he cannot fathom.

 

The lamp on their terrace has attracted some onlookers, drawn to the new light enough to stop their business and look up at them with curiosity, perhaps even with hope. Arafinwë counts but a dozen. How many are left in Tirion? How many of those will join them, and how many will stay? Next to him, Findaráto waves down at the onlookers with a sad smile, perfectly at ease in his princely role. He is well beloved. The people will follow him, no matter what he chooses.

 

"You needn't decide today," he tells him. "Whatever time you may need to reflect on what course to take next I grant to you. We have been hasty enough as is."

 

Findaráto's jaw stiffens, but his smile does not waver, for the sake of the small crowd.

 

"I _have_ decided," he says. "I decided long ago."

 

Pride, again, pride and that accursed willfulness that all of his children seem to have inherited. (From whom? Neither he nor Eärwen is especially stubborn. Are they?) Arafinwë does open his mouth to speak against it, this time, but a sound in the study room makes them both turn around to see who it is. Artanis. She stands by the door, her long, beautiful hair braided so tightly behind her head it looks as if she cut it off entirely. The light of the Teler lamp blinds her, too, but she steps in the room. Findaráto turns to face outwards, likely to hide his tears from her - his eyes still red and swollen. A futile attempt: he cannot hide his mind from his sister's, he never has, and this is likely the very reason why she has come. Arafinwë steps back into the room to meet her, to _stop_ her, because he knows Artanis needs but a glance at the ring on the desk to understand what brought on Findaráto's distress.

 

"How dare she!" she exclaims.

 

"Artanis," Arafinwë says, warningly, gesturing with his hands for her to calm down.

 

"No! How dare she? What was she thinking? Foolish girl! Does she think she will ever find a better suitor, a better person than Ingoldo?"

 

"Please be kinder, your brother is grieved."

 

"I do not need to be coddled like a child," Findaráto says, stepping back into the room with them, his sharp tone a valiant effort to pretend he is alright.

 

In anger, Arafinwë's daughter can be fiercer than his three sons combined, but her softness also knows no bounds. Something shifts in her gaze when she sees Findaráto's face more clearly, taking in his anguish to stifle her sisterly outrage. Artanis walks up to him to hold him in an embrace Findaráto cannot resist, for all his pretense of aloofness.

 

"Beloved," she says, "we will find you another bride. I will find her myself if needed be. One of my friends. Someone worthy of you."

 

"I do not want another bride," Findaráto says, and lets go of her.

 

"There will be plenty of time to decide that later," Arafinwë tells them both, before Artanis gets the notion to berate her brother for staying faithful to a troth that is no more.

 

Findaráto returns to the settee, and Artanis sits next to him. She reaches for his hand. There is tenderness in the glance they exchange, their silent conversation easy for Arafinwë to follow, if he were so inclined, but he allows them this moment. If Artanis manages to channel her compassion, she might be the best for Findaráto, in his state of mind. But she loves her brother too much to entertain the possibility that another may find fault in him, and Arafinwë does not quite trust her to hold back her outrage, if her thoughts shift to Amarië rather than him. He pulls the chair from behind his desk and drags it over to sit in front of them.

 

"We really _are_ alone in this, are we not?" Artanis says, sounding lost. Unlike her usual, fearless self. "The Vanyar cannot understand. They will never join us. They will never help."

 

"We have each other," Arafinwë reminds her. "And we always will. Little else should matter now."

 

"But we must depart soon," Findaráto says, with not as much conviction as he likely intends. "Or we may never leave at all."

 

"I have been ready for days," Artanis says. She has been wearing riding breeches since the day of Fëanáro's dreadsome speech. "Will you not give the order, father? How much longer do we need?"

 

Arafinwë looks at his son instead of answering. Now more than ever he wishes to delay their departure, to give him time to reconsider, to mend the quarrel with Amarië. To escape the loneliness of the future he glimpsed for him in his brief vision. But Findaráto's lips are set tight with unmistakable stubbornness.

 

"Not much longer," Arafinwë admits, reluctantly.

 

The frustration at this non-answer rolls off from Artanis like a wave, but Findaráto squeezes her hand, and she visibly composes herself before speaking again.

 

"The longer we wait," she insists, "the greater the distance between us and the other two hosts. With whom do you intend to side, once we rejoin the others?"

 

"Why, with no one, as I've always done," Arafinwë says, surprised by this question. "Why should I side with either of them now, when I never have? We are our own people."

 

"But the situation isn't as unequivocal as it once was. You must have heard the rumours. You must know that some now say there are two Kings of the Ñoldor, but only one rightful one."

 

Arafinwë sighs. Of course he's heard. He's heard little else, since the day Fëanáro returned to Tirion. He is not particularly inclined to make his loyalties public so soon, but he cannot feign aloofness in front of his two most politically-inclined children.

 

"My father is dead," he says, keeping his voice steady with some effort. "And Fëanáro is the eldest son. The firstborn. If I die," he adds, and both Findaráto and Artanis flinch at this, as if they'd never considered it (and why would they? no one had thought Finwë would die), "If I die, tomorrow, along the march, or in battle, Findaráto should become the head of our House in my stead. Not Angaráto, not Aikanáro, and not you, Artanis. My father was the King of the Ñoldor, an honour he earned in the long years in Cuiviénien, and it was his to keep or to cast aside, as he did when he left us and went forth to Formenos. Neither of his sons, then, should presume to reclaim a title that belonged to him. But _if_ , and mark my words, _if_ there is now to be a rightful lord of the House of Finwë, and of the Ñoldor, surely that someone would be Fëanáro."

 

He has been pretending not to notice his daughter's growing dismay. Her impatience would be amusing, in happier circumstances.

 

"But _surely_ you see that only a madman would follow Fëanáro!" she cries. "His speech! His purpose! That dreadful oath, his contempt for the Valar!"

 

"Indeed," he concedes. "And I am no madman. But I spoke of what is rightful, and not of what is righteous. The Valar Themselves have spoken against him. In his rage and in his grief, Fëanáro has gone to a place where few can follow. And for that reason I would side with Ñolofinwë, the brother who holds me in the least contempt, were I forced to choose between them: between two causes that speak little to my heart, wrought in wrath and seeking revenge. But I do not believe I must choose. Do you?" he asks Findaráto.

 

His son seems startled with the unexpected question, and the shift of the attention to him. He glances at Artanis, then shakes his head.

 

"We are few," he says. "Fewer in number, and in swordsmen, and in craftsmen. I fear we may not be enough to build a settlement, or to defend ourselves, if need arises. We will need the people of Ñolofinwë, later on, and it might be best to stand with them sooner rather than later. I love my cousins. But I agree with you, father: we have always been our own people."

 

"And so we shall be," Arafinwë says, and allows himself a smile.

 

"But you will not die," Artanis says, returning to the part of the conversation that distressed her, earlier. "Father! You will not. No one will."

 

She sounds uncertain and, Eru, so _young_. Arafinwë looks at her, seeing not the grown lady, tall and proud, that she has become, but the little girl who sought comfort in his arms when something frightened her, rarely enough to be but a handful of precious, cherished memories. That same child, young as she was, longed to be a _lord_ in her own right, and have lands and people to follow her, and to love her. Before the darkness, Arafinwë was of a mind to allow her to start her own council, as his sons have done. Nerwendë would make a good lord. She has the skill, and the will to be whatever she desires. But now...

 

"This is a war we are marching to," he reminds her. "Not a light-hearted journey to fair lands, despite what the longing in your heart would have you believe. You heard your uncle. You heard the Valar. The road will be long and hard, full of sorrows we cannot foresee, and only by our swords shall we conquer our new realms. In war I may be slain, like my father was, and indeed you, and your brothers. To this we agreed; you, when you stood tall, moved by Fëanáro's mad visions, and I, when I realised few desired caution or delay any longer, and stayed silent."

 

Arafinwë's heart revolts at the sound of his own words, stern and ominous. Unlike him. He closes his eyes to not see the pain he's caused his children. The knowledge that, in time, their fëar might be rehoused to unbroken bodies provides little comfort: Míriel never returned and, if the rumours from Valimar are to be believed, neither will his father, not ever. Such a finality to death would drive the sanest one to despair, with their family at risk of being irreplaceably torn apart for ever at every misstep.

 

But the door bursts open, startling them all out of the sombre thoughts. Aikanáro steps into the room, in every way like a gust of wind, without knocking and forgetting to shut the door behind himself in his haste.

 

"I knew it!" he cries, looking towards the Teler lamp. "I knew what it was the moment I saw it, even in the distance. Where did you find it?"

 

"In my dressing room," Arafinwë answers slowly, out of step with this much more mundane conversation. "It is mine. Or was, long ago."

 

"Well! Who knew, I would not have imagined you owned one, and least of all here in Tirion. I was down in the courtyard when I saw it. This is perfect," he says, walking over to the balcony to admire it better. "It's just what we need in these dark hours. Ango and I have two or three in the workshop, but we left them there, forgotten, years ago. I don't think either of us remembered them. Wait until he hears! We shall light them, too. We may divide them among ourselves."

 

It is difficult not to be swept away by his youngest son's eagerness; it always has been. Aikanáro is wildfire, and would consume it all if left to his own devices. But even as he examines the lamp with evident delight, he seems to perceive something is amiss in the study room, silent but for his one-sided babbling. He turns towards them, and frowns in confusion.

 

"What is wrong?" he asks. He has not his sister's insight, and he has taken no notice of the ring on the desk.

 

"Haven't you heard?" Artanis says, her sarcasm cutting and bitter. "Grandfather is dead, and soon shall we all be."

 

But Findaráto is quick to add, " _Nothing_ is wrong."

 

"We were speaking of the journey that awaits us," Arafinwë tells him to keep the peace, noticing Aikanáro's patience thinning at the evasive answers of his brother and sister.

 

"What about it?" he asks, moving closer to the three of them. "I am ready. I have been for days," he adds, echoing what Artanis said earlier. Would that they saw how alike they are in mind and in temper.

 

In truth, Arafinwë half expected Aikanáro to ask to be allowed to journey with the sons of Ñolofinwë, for their great friendship, and keen as he was to depart. But his son did not speak against him in the Square, and later did also not seek to be parted from them, for all his burning desire. Arafinwë knows Aikanáro trains daily in the empty courtyard, fighting imaginary foes with swords greater than those of the rest of the House. Yet he has not pressed them on to leave, and awaits the departure with a patience so foreign that Arafinwë feels moved by it. _In this I am blessed_ , he thinks. Love still binds his House together, in spite of the darkness. At least this was not taken from them.

 

By now Aikanáro has moved to the settee, and though it is designed but for two people to sit comfortably, he finds a way to squeeze himself in there, displacing Artanis and Findaráto. He is too tall to fit, and annoys them both. He does not insist when he gets no clear answer to his question about the journey, and grimaces at his sister instead.

 

"Those tight braids are abominable on you, Nerwen. I regret to tell you your hair looks absolutely hideous today."

 

"So does yours, every day," she bites back, "yet I do not berate you about it incessantly."

 

"Peace," Arafinwë says, because although he finds it heartwarming to hear them squabbling like _before_ , as if nothing in the world were wrong indeed, he can tell they are irritating Findaráto in the state he's in, and he would spare him, if he can. "Where is your brother?" he asks Aikanáro, suddenly realising he has not been with all of his children together since... since the day of Fëanáro's speech, at least.

 

"I don't know. I've not seen him for hours. With Eldalótë, I suppose, readying the last of their belongings."

 

"Find him, and bring him here."

 

"How am I to fetch him, if I do not know where he is?" Aikanáro protests.

 

"Then take Artanis with you, and find him. Bring the lamps you spoke of, earlier."

 

Artanis is quicker to understand what lies behind this request, and takes it upon herself to drag Aikanáro out of the room, so that Arafinwë and Findaráto may be alone again.

 

"Get more chairs before we return," he hears his son say, with a half-laugh, as he lets Artanis lead him out. "Angaráto is too stout to fit with us in the settee."

 

His levity, both endearing and jarring, at least draws a smile out of Findaráto, and Arafinwë regrets, briefly, having sent Aikanáro away. In truth, he is loath to return to the subject that he knows his son would rather eschew, but Findaráto's anguish, though silent, has grown so deep it has nearly become tangible; a shadow on his fair face and a wounded look in his eyes. Arafinwë moves closer to sit next to him, and takes his hands in his.

 

"Ingoldo, please," he tells him. "Now is not the time for pride. Stay and wed her, or return the ring."

 

But Findaráto removes his hands from his. "I cannot do either," he says, and stands.

 

He does touch the ring on his finger, and twists it around, loosening it up, but does not remove it. He walks towards the desk where the other ring lies, and stares down at it as he speaks.

 

"I wanted to leave!" he says. "But not in my worst nightmares did I imagine it would pain me so. Now that I am parted from her I find that my eyes are open, and I see all that we are to leave behind. A hefty price to pay, for uncertain songs, and for lands neither of us has seen! But I know you do not wish to leave, father. I know you will join the march only because of us."

 

Arafinwë recognises this as an attempt to change the subject once more, but he decides to humour it, as he follows him to the desk.

 

"That is my chief reason, yes, but not the only. Finwë was also my father, not just the father of Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë. I too demand justice for his brutal murder, ill-equipped as I find either of us to administer it to a Vala, wicked or not. You said, earlier, that you would not stay here, while your family marches on. My feelings are not unlike yours, though I know my mother and my sister, who do love me, would rather I stayed."

 

"Yes. I spoke to grandmother, before I saw... _her_ ," Findaráto says, with evident reluctance to say Amarië's name. "She said she asked you to stay."

 

"She begged me to stay," Arafinwë corrects, and shakes his head. "But I have been remiss of late; I understood it that day of the debate, too late, perhaps, to make a difference. For many years now I have absconded to Alqualondë, and removed myself from the conflict. I thought it was to distance myself from the quarrels of my brothers, but I see now that the roots of the conflict dig dark and deeply into the very foundations of this city, and have fractured our people irrevocably. I regret it." He makes a resigned gesture with his hands. The weight of his shortcomings fell upon his shoulders that day, and he has turned them in his head ever since. "So I join the march with the hope of mending the rift between our Houses, one day. At least to comfort those who chose to follow my father long ago, but now find themselves caught in a bitter feud between his sons. If tempers flare again, I shall call for reason. I shall call for reason for as long as I breathe."

 

"Alas! That is, I fear, a thankless, hopeless purpose: you know few will listen to you. Others will resent you. Maybe even hate you."

 

Arafinwë thinks of Fëanáro's gaze that day, bloodshot and crazed, as it met his in the middle of the Square. He had not expected Arafinwë to speak, or to oppose him. Ñolofinwë, certainly, but not him. It looked, for a brief moment, as if he'd forgotten Arafinwë existed at all. But contempt and _hatred_ swiftly replaced his initial surprise, and he would not meet his gaze again. They argued and argued for hours, and not once afterwards had Fëanáro looked at him in the eye.

 

"Indeed," he answers, pained at the memory. "Yet if nine dismiss me, and but one listens to me, I shall count that as a victory."

 

Findaráto is still playing with the ring on his finger, lost in thought, and shows no resolve to remove it. Arafinwë stays silent, then, wishing there was more time for this. For all of this. Soon the others will return to the study room, and then... And then they must depart, as all his children demand, lest they are left behind in earnest. The horses, the banners, everything must be ready by now. Artanis and Aikanáro are ready, and Angaráto is likely so, along with his little family. And until today, Findaráto had no reason to believe he would not leave, and must have packed as well. So only Arafinwë must decide what to take with himself. Travel light, Fëanáro said. But how can he? There are dozens of books Arafinwë cannot imagine not having, in the future, and when they reach Alqualondë he knows he will find dozens of crafts he cannot bear to leave behind. Is it a flaw to be attached to _things_ thus, when far more trascendental conflicts are being waged? Perhaps he should travel with nothing, nothing at all, instead.

 

"I waited too long," Findaráto says, at last. "I should have married her soon after Turukáno wed Elenwë. I think she wanted me to. I do not know why I waited. I believed we had all the time in the world."

 

Curse the Moringotto and the wreck He left behind in his wake! None of this should have ever happened, unless they have truly been lied to, and the Music is, in fact, written like an ill-formed symphony, with a dissonance too great to ever hope to regain the harmonies of the initial theme. Arafinwë pushes away those blasphemous thoughts with some dismay: he's flattered himself to be free of the shadow that poisoned the Ñoldor, but here he stands, ripe for the taking.

 

"She would not have me, I think," his son goes on. "If I stayed. She knows me too well not to know how much I desire to go. And were she to take me back, I would grow to resent her for staying, and a union that should have been bliss would turn to bitterness. Nay, let it remain so: unfinished, but fair and unspoiled, instead of seeing it grow into sorrow."

 

"No marriage is blissful for ever," Arafinwë says with a frown, "and when it sours it may yet be mended with a will for kindness and understanding between husband and wife, though in some cases the differences may grow too unsurmountable for that. But I must warn you: you are lying to yourself if you believe your love for Amarië is unspoiled, and will remain so. If you keep this ring, and keep your vow, another bitterness will grow in you, even as your heart pursues the journey it longs for. It has already begun. I see it in your eyes."

 

Findaráto's cheeks flush a bright red, and his nostrils flare. He looks so angry that Arafinwë wonders if he will shout, but his son's voice, though not raised, is unsteady when he speaks again, and he knows his words have struck a chord.

 

"Why are you fixating on this ring? What do you imagine will happen if I remove it? Do you believe I will stop loving her the moment it leaves my finger?"

 

"Of course not," Arafinwë says, gently. "I said nothing about stopping to love her. But returned silver rings are molten for a reason: so that healing may begin immediately, instead of festering for years. And I may ask you: what do _you_ believe will happen if you keep your ring? Are you so bound to your own word that you would deny yourself relief?"

 

"Not so," Findaráto says, and his tone grows sharper. "But in this you are, perhaps, unfair: can you truly trust to understand how this tears me apart, when all you have known is a love that is sweet and placid, chosen by you when you were young, and steadfast ever since with no end in sight?"

 

"Sweet and placid? No indeed! But that is not for you to know."

 

It takes all of Arafinwë's patience to remain calm: his marriage to Eärwen will be questioned by no one, least of all their eldest child. How dare he! But as he tries to understand what could have possibly driven Findaráto to ask such a bitter question, it strikes him that his son is now far older than Arafinwë when Artanis, the last of his children, was born. This too is the work of the Marrer: poisoning the future of the younger generation, so that his own past seems unfairly blithesome and untroubled in comparison. No, he cannot blame his son for this.

 

He puts a hand on Findaráto's shoulder and strokes him softly. The gesture, though unexpected, seems to soothe him somewhat, and the anger deflates little by little.

 

"I see that in your pain you are not yourself," Arafinwë tells him, keeping his tone placating yet firm, "and I shall not begrudge you forgetting that I am your father, and as such I can see in your heart. I may not understand fully, but I perceive your anguish as clearly as if it were my own, and wish nothing more than to lessen your grief. Findaráto! I only want to see you happy. As happy as one may be, in this dire darkness."

 

For the second time that day, Findaráto struggles visibly to hold his tears back, but he wipes them off with his sleeve, the gesture brisk. He shuts his eyes tightly and lets out a long, shaky breath. When he opens them, his gaze is no longer clouded, and full of resolve instead.

 

"Fine," he says.

 

He slides the ring off his finger, and with the softest of wails he tosses it on the desk next to the other one. Arafinwë hurries to take them both.

 

"It's done," Findaráto says, his fists clenched tightly. "We are finished, Amarië and I. But ask me not to hand it back! I could not bear the sight of her now, and I must be strong to stand with you."

 

"You need not be strong, if you stand with me: I shall be strong for two, for as long as you need. But I will have them molten before we leave."

 

Arafinwë slips them inside an empty envelope from his desk, but as he waxes it shut with his own ring, he wonders if there are any forgers left in Tirion at all. Most were followers of Fëanáro. Those who remained faithful to Aulë have relocated to Valimar of late, to be closer to Him and his Halls. None of his own followers are forgers. The destruction of the rings may have to wait until they reach Alqualondë, then, and perhaps it is fitting that they will be molten in the same fire with which they were once forged. But he sees no need to tell his son this. The sooner the rings are out of his mind, the better. Even now, with the corner of his eye, he sees that Findaráto is following each of his gestures as he puts the envelope into one of the drawers of his desk, under key.

 

"Who will look after your belongings, when we leave?" Findaráto asks. "After all of our things?"

 

He is running a hand over the tallest book pile on the desk. Arafinwë catches the drift of his thoughts, and the question is interesting enough to give him pause. They cannot take everything with them, naturally. What will happen to their belongings? Thieves are unheard of ( _impossible_ ), but that was _before_. Who will dwell now in the Tower, with the royal family gone? Will another sit at Arafinwë's desk, and leaf over his books, his letters, his manuscripts? If he is the last to depart, must he order the Great Gates shut? His father always kept them open, to encourage his people to wander in his Halls. But the king is no more, and no one should wander among their discarded memories, their forgotten belongings, their secrets left behind. He sees it clearly: the empty corridors, the silent throne room, the deserted courtyard. As desolate as the streets of Tirion. In time, Yavanna's plants will reclaim every stone back.

 

"I do not know," he answers, after too long a pause for it to matter.

 

"And who will rule over those who stay?" Findaráto insists.

 

"My sister, I suppose, though she has little love for my father's people. One of her sons, perhaps."

 

"They have less love for the Ñoldor than she does."

 

He is not wrong: Findis married a Vanya, and her children were raised as such. She never returned to Tirion to see their father, not once, after he and their mother were estranged. Hardly a surprise. Arafinwë and Findis felt overlooked by Finwë more often than not, for a multitude of faults he used to berate himself about when he was younger: too quiet, too even-tempered, too golden-haired, not troublesome enough, not clever enough, not Ñoldo enough, too much like their mother, too unlike their father. It was Findis herself who put an end to Arafinwë's childish anguish; ' _We are what we are_ ,' she told him, wiping his tears, ' _whether he likes us, or not_.' Now a father himself, Arafinwë still cannot understand. He would find it impossible to favour one child over another, or to let months pass, let alone years, without hearing from either of them. But for all his faults, Finwë remains his father, and Arafinwë his son, and a Prince of his people. He does not think Findis feels the same, although her grief for their father runs deeper than his, for they never had a chance to reconcile.

 

"A regent should have been named," Arafinwë says, waving his hand with some impatience, "though neither of my brothers, the so-called rightful kings, thought to do so before departing. Fëanáro, of course, considers them too craven and unworthy to be any further concern of his. But Ñolofinwë should have done it, had he been in the right state of mind."

 

"You could name one. While you are still here."

 

"I, name a regent! And give rise to ever more rumours, this time about the third son, who presumes to rule in the absence of his brothers, and to appoint his father's regent? Nay, it isn't my place to name one."

 

"Whose place is it, then? Ingwë's? The Valar's?" Findaráto sighs. "Yes, the Valar may appoint one, when the time comes. Our people may look to Ingwë in the meantime, though I still find it disingenuous of us to abandon them to their fate thus."

 

Arafinwë is about to say their fate will be less bitter than that of those who journey, if the Valar are to be believed, but he has no chance to: a knock on the door, or rather, a series of thuds, interrupts them again. Not a moment too late. At least Findaráto was persuaded to let go of his ring, though Arafinwë fears he provided little comfort, if any.

 

"Yes, come in," he tells the rest of his children.

 

Artanis is the one to open the door, one lamp under her arm, to make way for Aikanáro, who carries two, and behind him Angaráto, who smiles brightly at Arafinwë.

 

"Here I am!" he says. "We brought the lamps, and this," he adds, holding up an hourglass so large he has to carry it with both hands.

 

This too is a Teler craft, wrought to mark the time when they sail. Filled with the soft, clear sand of the bay of Eldamar, its halves made out of glass are set to run for roughly three hours each; one turn of the hourglass marking the full brightness of either of the Trees, and two turns the mingling of the lights. These marine hourglasses, designed to take into account the swaying of the waves to retain accuracy, may not be as precise on land, but this is far better than the alternative: being unable to sense the passing of time was becoming wearing. The wooden structure in which the glass halves are encased is covered in fine carvings, filled with silver, depicting the ancestral symbols that Ossë taught the Teleri during their long journey to Aman, and of which they alone have the secret. Arafinwë's love for his wife's people knows no bounds, and yet it ever surprises him how much deeper it may nest itself inside his heart.

 

"Wonderful," he tells Angaráto. "Just wonderful."

 

Even Findaráto cannot resist the enthusiasm of his brothers and sister, and between the four of them they take turns to test whether the other three lamps work properly. Indeed, their mechanisms, not as old as that of Arafinwë's lamp, still run perfectly, and their light shines just as bright and warm. At Angaráto's suggestion, they turn off the newer ones to spare as much oil as possible, though the radiance is so comforting after so long in the dark that Arafinwë does wish they could afford to be a little more wasteful.

 

"You did not bring more chairs," Aikanáro notes, elbowing Findaráto in the ribs once they have settled the matter of the lamps.

 

"Forget the chairs," Arafinwë says. "We may sit in the terrace, like at home."

 

There would be cushions to sit more comfortably, in Alqualondë, but this works just fine: all five of them in a circle, Findaráto at his right, Angaráto at his left, and the two youngest across from him, sitting on the floor with their legs crossed - the Teler way. Arafinwë would smile, were the glow of his old lamp not a sobering reminder of the direness of the situation.

 

"How is Artaresto?" he asks, turning towards Angaráto.

 

"Fine," his son says, a little startled with the question. "Fine, I believe."

 

"He was not keen to journey, before. Has he decided?"

 

"He has." Angaráto sighs and looks away, but says no more.

 

"Well?" Arafinwë insists.

 

"He said he will come with us, though I fear that in his heart he would rather not. But I will leave, and Eldalótë will follow me, and my son has no wish to be parted from us."

 

Artaresto is barely grown, not yet one hundred, and the choice cannot have come easily. Angaráto will not meet Arafinwë's gaze, as if ashamed, or guilty. Evidently he wishes Artaresto never had to make such a choice, or worries he and his wife may have influenced his decision with their own. So Arafinwë reaches for his hand: the only one of his children who is also a father, and perhaps the only one to understand the burden a parent bears, when their decisions directly alter the course of a child's life. Angaráto seems to follow his thoughts, though with some effort, and squeezes his hand back with a sad smile.

 

"We will look after him," Aikanáro says.

 

Findaráto adds, "We all will."

 

Arafinwë's only grandchild. He knows not whether to lament that there was no time for more to be born, or to thank the stars that only one lived to see the destruction of their fair kingdom.

 

"So Eldalótë will follow Angaráto, and Elenwë marches with Turukáno," Artanis says, silent until then, and her voice wavers between sadness and contempt. "Do you not think Amarië would follow Ingoldo, if she loved him more?"

 

Both Angaráto and Aikanáro start at this: they did not yet know. Aikanáro gasps, and covers his mouth with his hand. Angaráto turns towards Findaráto, his gaze falling on his brother's bare fingers.

 

"Your ring!" he exclaims. "Is this true?"

 

"It is. But please! Do not pity me. I know you mean well, and I love you for it, but it wounds me more to be a cause of your concern."

 

"You are my brother," Angaráto says, "and therefore always my concern. But I shall speak of it no more, if that is your will." Next to him, Aikanáro nods to signal he will do the same.

 

"No two marriages are alike," Arafinwë tells Artanis, "and Eldalótë following her husband says no more of her love for him than if she did not. That is her choice to make, as it was Amarië's. Many wives stayed while their husbands left, and some husbands too were left behind. Do not be so quick to withhold your compassion, my dearest. You and I may see in the hearts of others, but it is not our place to judge them." He sighs, hesitating to continue, but decides it might be best to tell them now, rather than later. "After all, I do not yet know whether your mother will join us."

 

It is just as he expected: all four of them react with evident dismay, and he has to steel himself to spare them his own.

 

"What!" Aikanáro cries. "Never see her again, never hold her, never sail with her?"

 

"Why do you say _never_?" Arafinwë asks, though in his heart he knows why. "We are not going for ever."

 

"You said you do not yet know," Artanis says, before Aikanáro can answer anything. "Why not? Have you not spoken to her? Do you not know what she thinks?"

 

"I have spoken to her, all these days. I have done little else. But we are too far apart to be able to communicate at length, more so about such a complex situation. I do not think she quite understands how serious it has become. And neither of us is in the right state of mind to argue for hours in our thoughts."

 

"Why? What is it like over there?" Angaráto asks, full of concern. "Have they suffered much?"

 

"They were hit the hardest by the fog and the fell wind, when the Lights were extinguished. Several boats were capsized, though the people are, for the most part, unharmed. Less shaken than us, as you may imagine: the light of the Trees never quite reached over the mountains, and the city is designed for the dark."

 

All of this he learnt over the course of several days, from snippets of thoughts that Eärwen saw fit to share with him, when she had the mind to do so, busy as she was with her brothers and father to rally their people to their Tower and ascertain everyone was safe. The thoughts Arafinwë shared in return distressed her too much, and she still seems not to grasp what he means when he tells her they are leaving. _Leaving to go where?_ she sent last, but something over there required her immediate attention, and Arafinwë had not the heart to explain.

 

"We have a duty to each other, and to all of you, but also to our people. This we knew when we chose each other, and our choice was not made lightly, even as children," he adds, and gives Findaráto a pointed stare. His son blushes, and looks away.

 

Arafinwë cannot ask her to leave her people to follow him. A scarce year before, if she asked him to leave his people for hers for good, as he'd begun doing since they were married, he'd have said yes with his eyes closed: becoming one of them fully would have required far less sacrifices than bringing Eärwen to his father's quarrelsome court that he so detested. Today, however...

 

"How does Fëanáro plan to cross over the Great Sea?" Artanis asks, suddenly. "He has no ships of his own."

 

The question makes Arafinwë's heart twist with foreboding. He finds it hard to breathe, as he remembers the hatred in his brother's eyes when their gazes last met. Something is wrong. Something wrong is going to happen. But what? His daughter seems to share his unease, and they stare at each other without understanding.

 

"We have boats," Aikanáro says. "Yours, mine, my mother's. We can sail people, if needed be."

 

"That is a minuscule fleet for so many people," Angaráto objects. "How many is that? Thirty at most? And they are not large ships. Most of them were made to amuse ourselves, not meant to sail over such long distances. It would take us years to ferry all of the Ñoldor this way."

 

"I do not think Fëanáro has the patience to wait years," Findaráto says.

 

"We must go!" Arafinwë says, with an urgency he has never felt before, and startling his children with the force of his voice. "We should have left long ago. Start the hourglass! Before two full turns we must be on our way."

 

 _Ilúvatar, Thy will be done_ , he thinks, a line from a prayer he used to sing in his youth. Yet no sooner has he thought it that it strikes him this isn't His will at all, but theirs, distorted and twisted by the Shadow: Fëanáro's, their people's, his children's, and his own.

 


End file.
